A Steward and his King
by or.is.it
Summary: Aragorn and Boromir have a little sword practice


I wrote this quite a while back, when I was looking for an A/B story without the usual drama, fluff and/or romance. I couldn't find any and so I guess I just had to write it myself.

Thanks to Lizzie for the beta

--

A Steward And His King

--

It was the first time since Lórien that they allowed themselves to stop before dusk and have not only a proper meal, but also some time to rest and relax. The Hobbits had outdone themselves with the cooking, and Aragorn never ceased to wonder at how Sam and Pippin seemed to be capable of turning basically nothing into something not only nutritious but delicious as well. He made a mental note to recommend that his fellow Rangers always have a Hobbit with them when they were out in the woods, not only for means of cooking but also for entertainment.

Leaning back, he watched Merry and Pippin fight over who got to scrape the few leftovers out of the pan. The setting sun coloured the woods about him in tones of yellow and red. Although he was exhausted, Aragorn felt tense. He didn't think he would get much sleep that night, just as he hadn't the nights before. He took out his pipeweed, and was just about to light his pipe when Boromir stepped up next to him and quietly asked if he was inclined to do some sword practice.

At first it had only been the usual series of attack and defence, carried out almost automatically by the two fighters. But then, and Aragorn couldn't remember afterwards who had started this, the pace had increased, the blows had been getting stronger and harder and both men had to do all they could to stand up to their opponent. For a while Aragorn had quite enjoyed this, his mind set only on the next blow, on the next move, his worries almost forgotten.

Then, a troubling thought had occurred to him: Was this still training?

What had led them into such a full-on fight? He had tried to concentrate on his sword but once it had entered his mind, the worry wasn't easily waylaid.

Were these attacks serious? Had Boromir been carried away by the passion of their fight? And then it had hit him: Maybe this wasn't meant to be training. Maybe this was their showdown, the fight for the leadership of Gondor. Maybe Boromir was trying to get rid of the unwelcome rival. He had lured Aragorn away from the others and only one of them would come back alive.

This train of thought had distracted Aragorn's attention, and although he had hesitated for only a split second, it had been too late. Boromir's sword had come down hard on his; Andúril was sent flying from him, and had propelled itself (as a part of Aragorn had noticed in amusement) into a nearby tree.

Boromir, however, had not been prepared for this flaw in Aragorn's defence. At the successful blow, he had lost his balance and crashed full front into Aragorn, which had caused both of them to fall, Boromir landing on top of Aragorn, his sword skidding out of reach.

Aragorn tensed and prepared himself to launch the first blow, realizing, that with the slightly broader and heavier man on top of him, he had a very bad starting position. Boromir, however, rolled off him and burst into laughter. It was a sound, Aragorn realized, that he hadn't often heard, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

"It is a good thing no one is around to see us," Boromir said breathlessly. "It would be a welcome sight for a stray Orc: two mighty warriors falling over their own feet!"

His expression turned from amusement to concern when there was no answer.

"You're not hurt, are you? I didn't hit you?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No."

He felt rather foolish for his earlier suspicions. Boromir may not be willing to accept him as the heir to the throne of Gondor, but he was a man of honour nonetheless.

He lay there for a while, feeling the blood racing through his veins, listening to the heavy breathing of the man next to him, his body exhausted from the strenuous exercise, but still alert with adrenaline.

"A good fight," Boromir stated after some moments of silence, more to the world in general than to Aragorn.

Then he turned around, grabbed Aragorn's head and kissed him. Aragorn was stunned for a moment, wanted to break loose when his mouth was forced open.

But as he felt Boromir's lips against his and the hands gripping his hair, his body took control and with a rush of lust he returned the kiss, trying to pull the other man's body closer to his own.

There was nothing delicate in this, nothing gentle, just the pure and raw desire for sex, a desire born of the hardship and perils of the past weeks. Aragorn could already feel his body react as Boromir finally broke the kiss.

He suddenly felt the need for skin touching his own and started to open Boromir's tunic, a task made more difficult by Boromir unlacing Aragorn's shirt at the same time.

For a short, petty moment they just stood and watched each other's exposed bodies. Then desire won over curiosity once more; Boromir grabbed Aragorn by the waist and pulled him close. They kissed again, and Aragorn felt Boromir's bare chest against his own, the muscles covered with smooth skin, the soft curls of his hair, sending a warm sensation through him.

Their motions became stronger, hungrier. Aragorn gasped in pain as Boromir bit his neck. He felt the other man's teeth move down his body and shortly he marvelled at the irony of the situation: the steward, kneeling before his king. But soon the thought left his mind, the steward obviously knowing well what he was doing. Aragorn tightened his fingers in Boromir's hair, feeling his blood rush through him, allowing himself to let his control slip. He pulled Boromir up again, kissed him fervently and pushed him against a nearby tree. Boromir let it happen willingly, steadying himself against the trunk. They both struggled for control for a while, but soon found a mutual rhythm. Aragorn felt intoxicated with desire and fulfillment almost to the brink of madness. His muscles tightened, his fingers leaving deep scratches on Boromir's chest, their half-suppressed cries carrying through the twilight of dusk.

Afterwards they sat leaning against the tree in silence, Aragorn longing for his pipe. The sun had set by now, but darkness had not yet completely fallen.

After a while, Boromir got up and started to collect their clothes and weaponry before they would be surrounded by blackness. As he pulled Andúril out of the tree, Aragorn noticed a tattoo on Boromir's shoulder, showing Gondor's coat of arms. He felt awkwardly reminded of their quest and of the disagreement between the two of them.

Boromir threw Aragorn his clothes. "Better get dressed. It'll get chilly soon."

As they returned to the campsite, they found four very impressed Hobbits and one slightly amused elf listening to the great and almost true tales of many a dwarfish deed. Aragorn settled down and finally got to enjoy his pipe, smoking the last bit of pipeweed he had managed to save from the Hobbits.

When they were finally getting ready for the night, Pippin already fast asleep in Merry's lap, Boromir caught Aragorn's glance, treating him to a very warm and endearing smile. Aragorn watched him take his place for first watch next to the sleeping Hobbit's pile, pulled his cloak closer and then lay down himself. He fell into a deep and refreshing sleep.

Some hours before dawn Gimli woke him and Aragorn spent his watch chilled and at unease, a peculiar foreboding of dark events weighing him down.


End file.
